That which we call a rose ...

By any other name would smell as sweet.

Thanks, Shakespeare, I can take it from here ...

Okay, I'm going to go ahead and post this. Not because it's interesting, not because it's funny and certainly not because it's true (it isn't). But, I feel that when Blogger gave me my first random question - When your science teacher smashed a frozen rose with a hammer, did you warm the petals to bring them back to life? - I should answer it. I did and Blogger promptly told me that it should be no more than 400 characters. Why not say that on the front end? Anyway, here was my response ...

Back in 6th grade, I was just learning about girls ... or at least noticing them. It was nothing like what The Wonder Years taught me. Girls my age didn't know what love was; they thought you could find it in folded paper. But not Ms. Lewis, my science teacher.

She was a goddess. She asked me to bring that rose to her and I was so proud to be chosen. I was certainly her favorite. And when she chilled it with liquid nitrogen and smashed it I was devastated. I tried to thaw the petals out. Tried to put the rose back together, but the damage was irreparable. Red lay upon Ms. Lewis desk for a moment and then was swept away into a bin.

Later that day a girl named Ginny kissed me on the cheek at the soccer fields. I ran in to school, found Ms. Lewis and kicked her in the shin. I didn't believe my mom when she told me that's not how you break up with a girl. This, unfortunately, came back to haunt me later in life.

So, Blogger, I win. I posted this on your website despite your firm protesting of it's length. Maybe I should set this to post later, as a backup plan ... I will. If you're reading this, it's Thursday and, for fear I wouldn't get home in time to tell you all about it, I've set this blog to publish now while I'm at TPAC watching Dimitri Martin do stand-up comedy.

I'll tell you about it tomorrow.